I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset – sat nav had us veering off into some narrow lanes near Somerton, and wouldn’t you know it, we got stuck behind a tractor doing about 5 miles an hour. Me and the wife were bickering over whether to toot or just chill, but by the time we arrived, that little mishap had us laughing. Pulling up to this gorgeous holiday house, I could already feel the anticipation melting away – it was one of those places offering a blissful blend of away-from-it-all escapism and luxury boutique lifestyle, with space to be together and room to be apart. First impressions? Spot on. Cosy yet swish, with a kitchen that screamed “get cooking” and a garden begging for lazy lunches.

We wasted no time diving into the food scene, which is what Somerset does best if you ask me. First evening, we wandered down to the local pub in Somerton, just a short stroll away – The Prince of Wales, I think it was. Pints of Butcombe pulled fresh, and their pies? Massive, flaky pastry hugging the juiciest steak and ale filling. I demolished mine, gravy dripping everywhere, while the missus went for the fish and chips that arrived crisp as you like. Proper pub grub that hits the spot after a drive.

Next morning, we hit the weekly market in town – a proper Somerset affair with stalls groaning under local cheeses, artisan breads, and the freshest veg you’ve ever seen. I grabbed a wheel of tangy cheddar from a chap who swore it was made five miles down the road, plus some plump tomatoes and herbs that smelled like summer. Back at the house, I fancied myself a chef. Fired up the Aga (or whatever that beauty of an oven was), and attempted a roast – chicken from a nearby farm shop, potatoes parboiled just so, and a jug of gravy from the market stock. Turned out half decent, if I say so myself, though the Yorkshire puds were more like sad pancakes. We sat in the garden, plates piled high, washing it down with cider from the local orchard. Bliss.

Evenings were for more pub crawls – there’s another gem round the corner, The Royal Oak, where the ploughman’s board is legendary: hunks of bread, pickle sharp enough to wake you up, and that cheddar again. One night, we pushed the boat out with their specials – slow-cooked pork belly that fell apart at a nudge, paired with seasonal greens. I overdid the portions, mind you, and spent the next morning nursing a food coma on the sofa, reflecting on how I’ve let my appetite outpace my willpower over the years. Funny how a holiday makes you notice that – but hey, no regrets when it tastes this good.

We even tried a picnic from the farm shop down the lane: pasties stuffed with local beef, apple slices dipped in clotted cream fudge. Cooking mishaps aside – my pasta attempt was a gloopy disaster one rainy afternoon – the house made it all easy. Markets twice a week kept us stocked, pubs for backup, and every meal felt like a treat. Left feeling stuffed, content, and already plotting the next trip. Somerset’s foodie heart won us over completely.